


Soft Breath, Beating Heart/I Wanna Fucking Tear You Apart

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (but they're in a human-ish form for all the smut so sorry if that's your thing), Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Communication, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, I want to be EXTREMELY clear that I mean this as in star trek not as in omegaverse but, Manhandling, Masochism, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Beta Read, Other, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, dragon!Michael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27869977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “There’s things we must discuss, now.” Michael grits out, but then they pause, like that’s… much of anything at all. Martin’s known there's something they need to talk about for the past hour, so he just waves his free hand in a “keep going” gesture, and they scrunch their face even more. “It’s… about biology.“Biology,” Martin repeats, because that could mean plenty of things. “What kind of biology?”“Dragon… biology.” They are not getting anywhere with this, though Michael’s pained expression makes him think he might have an idea of what’s going on.“What, like sex?”Just when Martin thinks he's got the hang of dating an actual dragon, nature has to go prove him wrong. (or, almost 9k words of dragon smut and healthy communication)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: Anonymous





	Soft Breath, Beating Heart/I Wanna Fucking Tear You Apart

**Author's Note:**

> We're a week into the hiatus and here I am. I got so embarrassed writing this that I honest to god copy and pasted the wikipedia article for birds into the start of this chapter so that there would be a buffer before the porn started.

Deep in the forest, Martin listens to the quiet noises of the wind, the birds, and the brook. Michael has curled their way into his lap, arms folded just in front of his knees and their torso resting across his thighs, their head carefully angled so their horns aren’t poking him but he can still play with their hair. There’s nothing but a nice, lazy afternoon in front of him, to be spent with the person he loves, claws and wings and all. Except.

Except, instead of making themselves extremely comfortable like normal, Michael’s spiked tail keeps twitching back and forth, their wings unfolding and refolding themselves across their back, and there’s a strange, tense hum at the base of their throat. He’d thought they might settle down as they day wore on, or say what’s so clearly bothering them, but it’s obvious now that it’s not going to happen. And, try as he might to relax, it’s making him nervous, too.

“Something wrong, love?” He asks, already knowing the answer from how they freeze, turning around to face him. Their face is twisted with worry, definitely, but they also look… embarrassed? Their eyes are wide and, sure enough, their face is flushed a little green. If Martin wasn’t busy being worried himself, he’d have to take a moment to consider how an actual dragon, human form or not, could look so cute.

Michael gives a hissing sort of sigh, wiggling around to face him properly, their tail now carving indents in the dirt from how much it’s swinging. Instinctively, he takes one of their hands carefully between his own, squeezing lightly, and they give a weak smile. 

“There’s things we must discuss, now.” They grit out, but then pause, like that’s… much of anything at all. Martin’s known there's something they need to talk about for the past hour, so he just waves his free hand in a “keep going” gesture, and they scrunch their face even more. “It’s… about biology.

“Biology,” Martin repeats, because that could mean plenty of things. “What kind of biology?”

“Dragon… biology.” They are not getting anywhere with this, though Michael’s pained expression makes him think he might have an idea of what’s going on. 

“What, like sex?” What’s confusing about that is that they’ve very much had sex before, plenty of times, and despite adjusting for a few extra parts (wings, tail, claws, horns, etc.) it wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. Well, no, it was really good sex, and also he’s head-over-heels in love with them, but… the point is, he’s not sure what’s left to be embarrassed about. Still, they nod, hands twitching slightly in his own. 

“Yes, although this is… unusual. It is, we are overtaken by a cycle. A ritual undignified. You understand the way buck become in fall? The rut? That ritual of the sparring and the antler-markings and the calls.” They explain, holding very still, and Martin blinks, then blinks again for good measure. Well then. 

“Wait, so you…?” He asks, not managing more words than that. 

“Mm. It’s not exactly the same, but you’re familiar enough for the parallel. Every few years, dragonkind enters a state of, madness, you could call it. All other urges, our minds, almost, are blocked out for the need to mate. ” They spit out a name that he’d be hard-pressed to spell and definitely can’t pronounce. “As base as it is, the madness is important. And unavoidable.”

“And you’re telling me this because…” Martin trails off, thinking, and they both end up answering at the same time.

“I won’t be able to see you for a few day’s time.”

“You want me to help?” They say in unison. Whoops.

Michael pulls back, face unreadable but looking him in the eyes, one clawed hand holding lightly on each of his shoulders.

“You still don’t get it, I’m afraid. The process is… intense. It is mindless to a degree unfamiliar to humans. Excessive. There’s a single-mindedness to it, especially at the start.” They’re speaking like they expect Martin to start nodding and agreeing, like yes, that sounds just awful. Instead, he feels suddenly warm. He tries not to think about it and fails—their teeth bared into him, a snarl in their throat, their hands pinning him down. Well. If they’re having this conversation, then they should really have this conversation.

“Okay, this isn’t something I actually know anything about, so this _might_ be out of line, but. Remember that time you bit me hard enough for it to bleed on accident? You felt awful about it, but I came like, immediately after. I _liked_ that.” He explains, because he is a grown man, and part of that is saying these things even if it’s kind of mortifying to make the words come out of his mouth out loud.   
Michael blinks at him, so he squeezes their hand again and keeps going. “I—we don’t have to, if you don’t want to, and this sounds like, um, kind of a personal time. But I’m offering, and I think that’s something I would enjoy.”

“Hmm.” The sound is long and drawn out, thin and stretched from the back of their throat as they consider. “I— I’m not opposed. You’re really not just saying that?”

“Michael.” He squeezes their hand again, giving a bashful smile. “I think that sounds hot. And I trust you. Also, if I think about you just staying all alone in your cave for something so important it’ll make me sad.”

That earns him a laugh, some of the tension easing out of them. “I’ve spent every one before as such, it’s not anything unusual.”

“Oh my god. That’s worse. You get that that’s worse, right?” He holds their face in his hands for a moment, stuck between earnest and amused, and they snort.

Then, Michael disentangles to dig through their satchel. It’s enchanted to be virtually endless, and it’s only when their entirely too-long torso has disappeared into the bag for several minutes (most of which Martin spends trying not to laugh at them) that they return, holding a thin necklace with a heavy, rounded opal at the end. It glimmers and swirls with color and light magic. 

“I will consider it more, and this might help. I lose much of myself, and your body is not built to withstand this as a dragons’ is.” They hush him when he tries to point out again that he’s 1. pretty okay with that and 2. not exactly fragile. “At least it would make me, feel better, if you had this. It’s a thwarting stone, tied to me. All you need to do is hold it tightly for five seconds, or say a certain incantation, and I’ll be paralyzed.” 

“You’ll  _ what _ ?” 

“Only temporarily, just for half an hour, with no lasting effects. I promise.”

“And, what, you just carry that around with you all the time? Isn’t that a bit, y’know, dangerous?” It definitely seems dangerous in the wrong hands, but Michael just shrugs. 

“… I would be more comfortable if you had a way out of the situation.” 

He hesitates for a moment, before nodding. Carefully, Michael unclasps the chain and arranges the necklace around his throat, letting their fingers drift across the back of his neck as they pull away, expression soft.

They spend the rest of the afternoon working out the details, since Martin’s still mostly unfamiliar with how this madness thing works, mixed with plenty of reassurances that yes, this is still okay. Even besides his own keen interest in the situation, he doesn’t want Michael to go through this alone. He loves them, and that includes weird dragon things. 

* * *

Martin steps lightly across the forest floor, his footsteps padded by plush moss and the curling tickle of ferns. Deep spring has broken at last, bursting open to paint the forest with a heady sense of warmth and green and awake. The sweet smell of nectar and pollen fills the air, mixed with the sharp tint of cedar wood and the damp smell of moss. Blanketed by new leaves and the still-green beginnings of fruit, he wanders down the little path. If it can even be called a path, really—it’s nothing more than a light indent in the earth from the hooves of deer, this deep into the woods—but he knows it well. The world is held in warm, thick shade around him, the forest holding its breath.

It feels like waiting.

And Martin is waiting with it, hardly focused on the lush scenery at all. Walking at a casual pace takes actual effort, when he keeps thinking about what’s waiting for him at the end of the path. They’d agreed to meet at a small open space in the trees, their usual clearing, and he’s not too far, now. Even with only a decent of idea of what to expect, he can’t help the anticipation quickening his steps; it took several weeks for spring to fully sink its claws into the world and Michael’s time to come, which means plenty of time for him to fantasize about it. Generally with a hand fisted around his cock or fingers shoved inside of himself. So Martin’s more than a little eager to see Michael let go.

Still, something tells him to stay quiet. Not the pressing hint of danger that the deep forest sometimes gives, no matter how much time he spends within it, but a sense of respect, almost. As though he’s passing into a sacred place, a cathedral of cedar and fiddleheads, where any noise too loud will break the spell. As though the tension he feels is itself an incantation.

It’s like that, breath held for the quiet and from anticipation, that Martin reaches the glade. It’s nothing much, just a gap in the trees padded by soft spring grass, but it is entirely quiet. No sounds of birds, no skittering in the undergrowth, not even any breeze. He almost imagines that he can hear the beating of his own heart, thumping fast against his ribs. Everything is hushed as he steps off the dirt path and into the empty grass. 

But Martin isn’t alone. He can’t see Michael between the trees, crouched somewhere amongst the ferns, can’t hear any hint of movement beyond his own, but he can feel their gaze on him. It hangs over him almost like a physical touch, the familiar shadow of their wings, to stand there and know they see every movement when he has no idea at all where they even are. A shiver runs down his spine. Carefully, Martin sets down his things at the treeline. His nerves scream at him not to let his guard down and he does anyway, trying to keep his breath even. 

The silence remains as he walks to the center of the glade, but the preyfeeling is stronger now. He finds himself glancing around, straining his ears for any hint of where they are, and the nothing he gets in return just sets his nerves on fire even more. None of it is fear, not really, only heady excitement. He knows Michael wouldn’t ever hurt him, not in ways he hasn’t asked for, but being out in the open like this makes him feel exposed, vulnerable. It’s something he could get used to. The sweet, heavy smell of honeysuckle hangs in the breeze, and his eyelids flutter, torn between the false comfort and the racing, welcome threat.

“Michael? Love, are you th—” His voice cuts through the quiet, suddenly loud, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish. A twig snaps to his left, there’s the sound of moving air, and a sudden pain in his shoulder as something slams into him. All at once, Martin is sprawled on his back with a thud, the wind knocked out of him, and Michael is above him. He can’t form a single thought except how beautiful they are. 

Two enormous, beating wings frame them on either side, bordered with jagged edges and painted in opalescent, shifting colors. The spring-light catches on all their scales, flashing green and yellow across their bare shoulders, their arms, their hips. They kneel over him in all their height, one hand, rough with heavy claws, pressing down on his throat to where his pulse races, just enough to keep him pinned. Twitching slightly, their pointed tail is wrapped around his lower thigh, tugging his legs apart, while the sun shines through their wild hair in a halo beneath twisted horns. Their eyes are clouded, pupils blown with lust, forked tongue hanging out obscenely over jagged teeth, mouth twisted in a victorious smile. 

Dazed, his gaze drifts downwards, and Martin resists the urge to moan, wiggling in their grip. Michael’s cock hangs hard and heavy between their legs, expanded by the effects of the madness and dripping with precome. 

“Martin.” They growl, voice ragged and syllables slurred and barely words at all, and he realizes for the first time with a burst of heat what he’s in for.

“ _ Fuck _ , Michael.” Is the closest thing to a coherent sentence he can form, and he’s fully in his right mind. It’s just as well, though, because he loses whatever speech ability he had as Michael leans down and kisses him. They ravish his mouth, clumsy but deep, their fangs snagging into his lips, and he does moan at that. Reaching out blindly, his hands find the space on their back between their wings and he pulls them down on top of him, and Michael gives a deep, throaty snarl, shoving him further into the ground as they rut against him. 

Uncoordinated and desperate, they lick a broad, warm stripe down from his mouth to the space beneath his jaw, and he gasps, tilting his head back as much as he can with their claws still tight around the base of his throat. He’s dazed already, overwhelmed by their force and the rough rub of their prick against his own through his trousers and the deepness of the spring. Even for all his dreaming of this, Martin still isn’t quite prepared for how hot it gets him, desire overwhelming everything else. 

Michael hisses after a moment, full of disdain, and he doesn’t have a chance to think before their claws are tearing into his trousers and underclothes, shredding them like nothing at all. It makes him gasp, breathy and louder than he’d care to admit, to be reminded of how powerful they are. And here he is, at their mercy in the heart of the forest.

In one swift motion, their tail is spreading his thighs wider and they’re pushing in, shoving the hot, hard length of their cock all the way, one sharp hand digging into the soft flesh of his hip. Considering something like this might happen, Martin had stretched himself out earlier, pressing his fingers into his hole until he was wet and open, giving into the urge to get himself off, and he’s glad for it now. 

Still, it’s so much, and he yells, the breath punched out of him, and they just keep going. For the first time, he thinks that it’s just not possible, they’re too big, there’s no way they’ll fit inside him even as he wants more. But they press in anyway, deeper, deeper, until he feels their hips flush against his own, until they’re curled over him, breathing hard and hair skimming over his face, until it feels like he might break in half. 

Before he has time to adjust, Michael pulls away before slamming back into him. It jolts through his body, punching out little breathless noises he can’t seem to stop as they repeat it again and again. All of their usual gentleness is gone, replaced by deep, animal recklessness. Even with his preparation, it hurts, but it’s a burning sort of pain that he  _ loves _ , letting it build as they thrust deeper and deeper.

Michael lets out wild, broken moans above him, their tail gripping his thigh tightly and pulling it back to hold him open as they pound into him. They grip at his waist with one hand and one thigh with the other, and the tips of their claws dig into the sensitive skin, tiny pin-pricks of pain that make him whine. The beating of their wings shakes the trees, using the momentum to push down into him with full force. There, on the forest floor, they rock into him again and again, until it’s all Martin can do to hold onto them tight and feel them so very deep inside of him, his cries getting louder and louder.

But for all their strength and the delirium and their hand at his throat, how much he enjoys it all, more than anything else, Martin trusts Michael. Body, soul, and heart, he trusts them with all— enough to give them all away. And he receives the same from them in turn, that same sort of love. And it is that trust that lets him toss his head back, to wrap hid legs around the small of their back, to bare himself to them entirely. 

All things considered, Martin feels like he holds out okay, considering how unbelievably wrecked he is by the whole situation, by Michael. Still, he feels himself getting close, their thrusts rubbing against his prostate and the pain twisting deliciously. 

Their moans, ragged and breathy, have taken a different shape, a sharp-sounding, garbled noise, hissed into his ear again and again. It’s with a start that Martin realizes their snarling chant is a distorted version of his own name, repeated again and again, possessive and adoring even with so much of their language gone. 

And it’s all too much. Martin comes apart with a wail, fingers clenched in the soft green grass and head thrown back, held beneath the open sky as they fuck him.

The pleasure still coursing through him twists to overstimulation, on the edge of more than he can handle, but it still sends dizzy shivers through him. There’s no way he can be anything but distantly interested, not after coming so hard, but he lets himself be amazed once more at simply how far inside him Michael is, their thick cock stretching him open with each push.

Through the floating sense of ecstasy, Martin can tell they’re getting close, thrusts going messy and their growls turning to that high, keening sound he’s grown to love. 

“There you go, there you go. Want you to come in me. Come on, Michael, sweetheart,” He urges, his voice ragged even to his own ears, running his hands through their messy hair, petting gently. 

Michael looks down at him, wide eyes still hazy but trained just on him, and thrusts in one final time. They begin to come, heat pouring into him until he’s full with it, much, much more than he’s used to. And, with their cock buried to the hilt inside of him, Michael tosses their head back and roars, a brilliant, wild noise that shakes the trees and courses through him. When they pull back, their seed is already dripping out of him, leaving him slick and full, and it’s enough for his cock to twitch weakly. 

Completely in a overwhelmed, Martin flops his head back down onto the soft grass with a curse, breathing hard, trying to process. Michael lies down next to him, one arm wrapped over him and face pressed directly into the ground.

But, tired as he is, cuddling naked and filthy in the middle of the woods isn’t really how he wants to spend his night, so after a moment of rest Martin forces himself to his feet. On shaky legs, he grabs his bags, turning to see Michael shifting back into their dragon form. They shake themself out from top to bottom, their shape shifting into something much larger, leaving behind a glittering, yellow-green dragon, about the size of a small house in a matter of seconds. They huff at him expectantly, nodding upwards to the sky.

“One second, I’m not getting on you naked.” It seems kind of counterproductive after what they just did, but he arranges what remains of his pants to be mostly covered, relieved that he packed extras, and climbs onto their back. 

They fly the short distance back to their lair, over the treetops and through the wind. Martin keeps his head down against it, drifting through the sunlight in a pleasant haze, and soon enough they’re diving down towards Michael’s nest. They land lightly, turning their head around to give him an encouraging chirp, and he slides down onto the gound, leaning a hand onto their neck as he stumbles. Flying was enough of a distraction, but now he’s starting to feel the consequences of hiking his way into the forest and also getting railed, yawning. His whole body stings and aches or is sore at least at little bit, but it’s all background pain, not enough to ruin his mood. 

Michael’s still in their dragon form, curling up with their front paws tucked under their head, watching him intently but without direction. They seem to have settled down now, which he’d expected—according to them, the arousal, and the lack of lucidity, comes in waves when it’s handled, so he should still have time to eat and sleep and the like, which is a relief. 

He gets settled into the lair—they’re in the frontmost cave now, one of the open spaces in the tunnels that reach much deeper into the mountain. There’s a huge mound of knitted blankets, worn scarves, pillows, and even a few actual mattresses mounded in the corner, big enough for a dragon (and their human) to fit comfortably, with a real bed tucked in the corner and a mismatch of furniture scattered around. Martin sets his stuff—food for the next few days kept in a box enchanted to stay cold, clothes, and some books—on top of a nearby cabinet, pausing to stretch with his arms over his head, shaking himself out slightly. There’s an appreciative growl from behind him. 

But Michael hasn’t moved when he turns, tail flicking lazily. 

“What, you like what you see?” He teases, not really able to take it seriously. “Well, hope you like watching me making toast, because that’s what you’re getting.” They huff out a laugh at that. Or, Martin knows it to be the dragonic equivalent, but it would probably sound like sonar magic gone wrong mixed with a stray cat to anyone not used to it, a high sort of croaking noise. 

He does end up make toast, because sometimes there’s just nothing better, even if it’s technically for dinner. He sits on the edge of the cave, where the rock juts out over the distant forest below, his legs swinging over miles of empty air as he eats. The sky turns purple slowly, bleeding through it as the light fades. There’s a soft breeze blowing from somewhere far off. 

Martin sits until he hears a huff from behind him, pushing himself to his feet on wobbly legs and brushing the crumbs off of his lap. Michael has clambered their way up onto the enormous nest, digging their claws into it and rearranging things until they’re comfortable and settling down, looking at him expectantly. They yawn, mouth splitting open to reveal jagged teeth, just for emphasis.

“Alright, I get the point.” He has to fight down his own yawn just to get the words out, though, following them up onto the pile. It takes a bit of adjusting, but eventually they work themselves out to both be comfortable. Michael’s curled up into a big ball from their head to their gleaming tail, with Martin tucked up in the center, their wings spread to cover both of them as best as possible. Being wrapped up in scales and points is somehow wonderfully comfortable, when it’s them, and Martin stretches up to give them a kiss on the top of their snout, getting a chirp in return, before settling off to sleep. Based off of today, he’ll be needing his rest. 

* * *

He’s woken, early, by the feeling of something tickling across his face. Still wrapped up in the heavy haze of sleep, Martin just grunts, ready to ignore it until he feels a clumsy press of lips against his cheek. The next one comes on the corner of his lips, almost there, Michael’s hair still dangling down into his face, which is pretty much unavoidable with how much of it they have. At least mostly awake now, Martin reaches up on the next kiss, burying his hands into that soft mass of hair, pulling them down to kiss them properly. They kiss him deeply and eagerly, licking down into his mouth, and he hums with pleasant surprise at the enthusiasm. Shifting above him, they move to straddle him properly, growling into the kiss, fangs sinking into his lip and tugging, and oh. It’s only then that he feels the strain of their hard cock against his hip as they press down against him, hissing, and remembers exactly what circumstances they’re in. 

Finally opening his eyes, Martin pushes them back lightly to gasp for breath, though they don’t seem to want to go, continuing to sprawl over him. It’s obvious now that the madness has overtaken them again, their eyes blown wide and breathing already fast. Michael noses their way to where his neck meets his chin, and he leans back, as much to avoid their spiralled horns as to bare his throat. They rumble their approval, sucking firmly on the skin there, hard enough that it’ll bruise, and even then they don’t stop. The rocking of their hips against his own has settled into a slow, rolling rhythm now, and he feels himself starting to get hard, moving up against them. 

Martin gasps when their attention to his throat is replaced by a sharper sensation, their teeth sinking into the already abused spot in a sharp burst of pleasure and pain, a pang of warmth shooting through him with it. They bite him hard and hold on until spot is tender to the point of bright discomfort, and he wriggles, not sure if he wants to get away or push up into the onslaught, fingers tightening in their hair. He’s so distracted that he only barely notices as they tug his legs apart, only managing to push them back with what little willpower he’s clinging to. 

It’s not like getting fucked properly again isn’t really appealing, especially when he’s still sort of feeling lazy and not like moving. It’s just that they’ve got to get through a few more days of this (oh, woe is him, having a ton of sex with his very attractive dragon lover) and he has a human body with human limits, so best to pace themselves. 

He manages to shove them off of him—they’re not trying to stop him or anything, but they  _ are _ a whole dragon’s worth of dead weight that would rather be kissing him than not—and half-climbs half-falls down the pile of blankets onto the cave floor, kind of just rolling and skidding without any grace at all. And then, when he reaches the bottom, he rethinks it and has to climb all the way back to the top to find an acceptable pillow to grab, tumbling down a second time and kicking a stray blanket off his foot with a hop or two to keep from toppling over. Michael follows much more elegantly, landing beside him softly, wings fluttering as they fold down in against their back. 

“Show-off. Not all of us can fly, y’know.” He rolls his eyes, no real malice behind the words, and they huff out a laugh. In this state, their english has entirely disappeared and even their full draconic is much more limited, not that he would understand it anyways, but they’re communicating well enough so far.

But there’s more pressing matters at hand than talking—and he’s not exactly going to be able to speak with what he’s got in mind. Ignoring, with some effort, their big, heavy hands creeping down the small of his back, Martin arranges the pillow on the floor and drops to his knees on it. Excitement swirling through his center, he gazes upwards at their hard, dripping length through his dark eyelashes, and his mouth waters. Michael rumbles appreciatively, grazing the back of one jagged hand down his face, but he can tell from the way their fingers shake that they’re losing control. Perfect. 

“Want you to fuck my mouth, yeah?” He murmurs, letting one hand splay across their bony hip, the other gripping the base of their thick member, not quite able to close his fingers around it, and they hiss, hips jerking forward.

Taking them in his mouth, he laps gently at the tip, feeling their fingers bury themselves in his hair, scratching lightly over his scalp. Satisfied, Martin takes them deeper all at once, working to keep his breathing even and throat steady. It’s more than worth it for their reedy moan and the sensation of hands tightening in his hair, tugging him forward. He takes a moment just to relish the weight of their cock on his tongue, the feeling of it stuffing his mouth full, before pulling back. He always loves this, the way they fill him so completely, his lips forced wide around them, the surge of pride at being able to take something so big, to be able to make them feel good.

This time, he doesn’t start to move, instead letting them press forward into his waiting mouth. They fuck into him eagerly, claws digging into his scalp, holding him tightly in place to be moved how they like, and Martin lets his eyes drift closed. It’s enough for his eyes to water, but they pull out quickly, just to thrust back in, deeper. It hurts, makes him struggle not to gag as his jaw aches, but Martin adores it. He feels used, like this, to have them get off with his waiting mouth.

And their enjoyment is clear. They groan, long and low, above him, their eyes wild, all because of him. He sucks at them eagerly, distantly aware of the sounds filling the cave. It takes Martin a second to realize that the noises other than Michael and the slick, messy sounds of his mouth on their cock are his own, little hums and ahs and broken-off moans, muffled by them. He’s whimpering almost constantly, both from the pleasure of lapping at them and the discomfort of their thrusts. 

Freeing his hand from their hip, he reaches for his own aching prick, moaning around them as he takes himself in hand, pumping as best he can in this position. He can tell Michael’s getting closer, their thrusts messier, deeper, and their noises less human. It’s enough to gag him now, how deep they push into his waiting throat, until tears trickle out of the corners of his eyes, and he lets himself go pliant, keening. Only their big hands, wrapped around the back of his head to keep his mouth in place, stop him from falling. Even as he jacks himself faster, grip twisting around his straining cock until it’s nearly too much, he manages to open his eyes. It’s more than worth it.

Michael’s mouth is twisted in a self-satisfied, gnarled smile, eyes bright and dangerously wild as they pant. Just as they begin to come, they pull him off, yanking his head back by the hair, one hand wrapped partially around his neck. As they moan, ragged, it’s clear they’ve angled him so that they come across his face, his neck, his chest, covering him in thick, heavy streams that catch on his still-open mouth. It takes him longer to register that the hand across his throat is not just holding him in place, but that their claws are digging into where the skin is already raw and bruising—their fingers and bright eyes are trained on the spot where they had bitten him so deeply earlier. 

They’re marking him.

And Martin comes with something like a wail, his voice ragged from their cock, hips pushing into his own fist and with their claws still at his throat, as he realizes what they’ve done to him.

After a long moment, he comes down, uncurling himself and sitting up. Michael’s sat just in front of him, panting hard and looking just about as composed as he feels (not very). Much gentler now, they take his chin in their hand, tilting his face back and forth with a hum. Admiring their handiwork, as it were. 

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself. You’re not the one who has to actually be sticky.” He rasps, and they chuckle, springing up. As they cross the cave, he takes pride in the fact that they’re a little unsteady on their feet, clearly as affected as he is. 

Michael returns with a damp rag, holding his face again, but this time to gently wipe him clean. He thinks they probably go slower than they really need to, just for the contact of it, but he lets them, sighing into the touch. 

“I love you,” he murmurs when they pull back, and they beam, replying in kind in draconic, the words (one of the few phrases he actually knows) taking longer to form than usual but still clearly meant. They help him over to a little circular table in a nook in the stone, all the chairs around it mismatched but still comfortable, wrapping the quilt there over his bare shoulders. Then they scamper away again, wings beating a few times until they’re perched on the far wall, where shelves upon shelves are stacked all the way to the top of the cave, rifling through the cabinets. Somehow, in all the empty shelves and seemingly random items, their tail snags around a small glass jar, the contents of which he can’t make out from this far away, and they hop back down, something else in their right hand and another held between their teeth. Watching them make tea, Martin is so overcome with love for a second that it hurts, and he puts a hand to the center of his chest to keep it from breaking him open.

Instead of falling apart, when they return, pressing the warm mug into his palms, he kisses them. “Thank you.” The tea is just on this side of too hot, warming him from the inside out, and the steam that rises from it is aromatic and woody. And there must be some spell to it, too—he can’t taste that part, obviously, but the first sip eases the soreness in his throat and the ache of his jaw, soothing warmth sliding over him. It’s a really good tea. 

Michael gives him a questioning nod, eyebrows raised and their wings arched, and he nods back. Somehow still not satisfied, they leave again, and he laughs. 

“Love, I’m fine. Really, it’s okay—” he calls, but they’re faster this time, back before he can even finish protesting. They hold part of his packed lunch: a boiled egg and some blackberries wrapped in cloth, which they push into his hands with an insistent rumble. When he just blinks instead of taking it, they actually growl at him, lips twisting back into a snarl, but with more bark than bite. He laughs, relenting and taking the food. And, after a few more sips of the tea and a few berries, Martin discovers that he is, in fact, very hungry. 

It  _ is _ midday already, judging by the sunlight streaming in from the cave opening, and he didn’t have more than toast last night. Michael’s not eating, themselves; their metabolism is on pause to ensure that they won’t need to hunt or worry about food at all when their priorities are elsewhere. Their sleep schedule is mostly in the same state, for that matter—they were sleeping only very lightly last night, which Martin knows because he was woken up by being hit in the face with dragon wings several times, and they were clearly awake before he was.

But they still watch him, tail wagging, until he’s finished peeling the egg and taken the first bite. Then, satisfied that he’s not going to starve to death at any moment, they wriggle their way under his arms and across his lap that they’re too tall to really fit into, sprawling themselves out with their limbs hanging limp over him. Used to it, Martin just rests his elbows on them like they’re a table, content to stay close. 

They wear away the hours into the afternoon like that, Martin curled up to read while Michael alternates between being as much of a blanket as physically possible and pacing across the broad space of the man cavern, shifting between their humanoid and dragon forms restlessly.

And then Martin remembers that he has a gift for them. Well, it wasn’t a gift he was going to give now—he’d figured it might be better when they were back to normal (as normal as Michael ever is), but they’re pacing a little too close to his bag, and the thought that the gift may be broken before he gets the chance to give it won’t leave him alone. And, hey, maybe Martin’s just feeling a little sentimental. It’s hard not to, with them. 

So, after he’s eaten an early dinner, Martin digs around in his bag to find the small wooden box he’d packed, the contents clinking softly as he holds them up. Michael, now sprawled out on their belly all across the floor fully as a dragon, looks up as he pushes the plain box towards them. He finds himself suddenly a little embarrassed for no plausible reason at all. 

They change back with a shake of the head, taking it from him, their scaled fingers brushing over his own in a tiny, heart-thumping gesture. Those same claws open the box carefully, holding the three snail shells it contains up into the afternoon sunlight. 

They’re about fist-sized each, shining a soft, delicate pink, the lines folded within them circling in and in further into a neat, dizzying spiral. When Michael lifts one into the sunlight, the light cuts right through it, revealing dozens of tiny patches of other colors embedded in the pink shell, scattered across the cave floor between them. 

Nothing has made a home of the shells for a long, long time, the insides cleaned and smoothed by the waves of an ocean Martin’s never seen. How they found their way to the market of a city nested in the woods he’ll never know. What he does know is that they reminded him of Michael. And he knows that he loves the dragon dearly. When he gets down to it, he thinks, those two truths might be the same thing. 

Still, he waits anxiously for their response. It’s not the first gift he’s given them, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling so special; a dragon’s horde, of course, is a deeply important part of their life.

Luckily, their expression of wonder breaks into a blinding smile, and they throw their arms around him with enough force that he struggles to keep his balance, laughing. He hugs them back, careful of their wings, squeezing them tightly until they’re ready to pull away. When they do, they kiss him quickly, wings fluttering softly against his arms as they beam. 

“Si vinxa, Martin,” they murmur, repeating it a few times and kissing him again. Fortunately, “thank you” is one of the bits of draconic he’s managed to get down pat. 

“Oh it’s nothing really I just—y’know, thought it might be nice—you really don’t have to…” He starts, but even the most automatic modesty is difficult to manage when they keep looking at him like he hung the sun and the stars. At least Martin knows adding to their horde feels just as important to Michael as it does for him. 

Together, they head deeper into the lair: really, most of it is made up of near-endless, knotted-together tunnels, sometimes leading to dead ends or suddenly dropping down into a pit of empty darkness, but there are a few larger caves within, and Michael knows the way to every part of this strange place. They walk beside him on four clawed feet, the box clutched between their fangs as though it’s made of glass, though the flicking of their tail gives away their excitement.

Their horde is in a large cave with a high, arched ceiling and no floor visible beneath the treasure. Though there is gold in the form of coins or elegant statues, most of Michael’s horde is less conventional, and all the more theirs for it. Instead, the room is full of multi-color gemstones, shells, shards of glass and thousands of pressed flowers. Around the corners are driftwood-sculptures and the winding shapes of vines; there is a small section of warm, knitted and stitched-together things, blankets and scarves and tapestries, and ever-burning candles with winding, dancing trails of smoke. They’ve spent hours in here together before, looking through the assorted objects, dozens upon dozens of unique, beautiful things, and Michael knows the reason and place for each and every single one. It is not a display of wealth (dragons function on a different sort of thing entirely) or simply a collection of objects but a place full of things treasured. 

Each item is known and loved and a part of them, almost, a sacred piece of dragon life. In the center of the horde is a small shrine of the items Martin has gifted them: a scarf of his they’d taken a particular liking to, an assortment of flowers he grew for them, bright, dizzy-patterned, and forever-blooming in their enchanted vase, and a small, golden pin in the shape of a dragon that’s older than the town are his personal favorites. Those and the other gifts are delicately arranged together, a collection that’s sure to grow. 

Michael noses under him until he slides down their neck and onto their back, then scampers up a pile of the horde and to the small shrine. They set the box down there, and he opens it, taking out the shells and holding them softly in the cupped palms of his hands. It’s Michael’s horde, and it’s not something he’ll ever understand in the way a dragon could, but this is something they do together, the ritual of giving and receiving. 

Human again, they undo the loose ponytail their hair is held up in, the golden mane falling in waves down their back as they hold up the beaded string that it had been tied with. Together, in a silence of understanding, they methodically knot each glimmering shell into the string, until they hang in a low arc between two stalactites. Michael observes them for a moment, then darts away to another mound for a moment before flying back with a hand mirror, offering it to him. Putting the tips of their fingers to their lips for a moment before taking them away several times, they gesture for him to kiss the mirror. Or, at least that’s what he’s pretty sure is happening, weird as it is. Because Martin is very much in love, he does so, pressing his lips against the cool glass for just a moment and feeling very silly about it. 

But when he pulls back the mirror no longer shows his reflection at all, but instead a smattering of maple leaves that form the canopy of an unknown forest, letting dappled light reach down between them. That same light arcs out of the mirror and through the dimmer air of the cave, bright and real enough to warm his palm when he waves a hand through it. Michael chirps at him just as brightly, and he nods. 

“Yeah, that’s… that’s incredible,” he murmurs, still stunned by the warmth of it across his fingers. It’s nothing at all compared to when Michael sets the mirror down, leaned up against a time-worn book, angled so that the light passes through the dangling shells, scattering those dancing pieces of soft, colorful light throughout the air and across the horde on the other side. It is dazzling in all meanings of the word. 

Content with their work, Martin leans back to sit against the front of a plush old armchair with the stuffing sticking out, sighing. He pulls Michael in with him just for good measure, and they settle against him with an easy hum, wrapping one big wing around his shoulders and nuzzling against the side of his jaw, their breath tickling his neck, and he snickers. 

“Si vinxa,” they repeat, voice barely more than a ragged whisper. 

“Of course,” he answers. “Always.” He can’t manage more than that with words, so tilts his head down to kiss them. They preen, pressing in closer, and the two of them stay like that for awhile, sharing air and little kisses and space as the light dances over them. 

When he starts to hear the constant ruffle of their wings as they open and close just a little, flicking slightly, and their kisses start being more near his mouth than actually on it, Martin turns to face them properly. They scramble to adjust, hunched over awkwardly to stay on his level with their height, tail waving. He chuckles, tangling his hands in their hair and pulling them in for another kiss. Kissing back eagerly, he feels one of their big, jagged hands wrap around the back of his neck—just resting there with no real pressure, but it sends a thrill up his spine all the same—while the the other wanders to the small of his back. 

Emboldened, Martin nips lightly at their lip, pressing his tongue into their open mouth when they hiss. The warning growl they give him shakes right through his jaw, but he pays it no mind; instead he pulls back too soon, chuckling as they chase after him without success, shifting around to straddle their thighs, settling casually down into their lap, as though he can’t feel the strain of their cock against him already. Madness indeed.

This time, the hand at his back is not so gentle. Their claws dig into the soft skin there carelessly, tugging him flush against them, and he can’t quite to suppress a shudder at the sensation. Raw and dark and pleased, they laugh into the shell of his ear, an inhuman noise that sends heat right through him. For a second, it’s all he can manage, to hang against them, panting against their shoulder as claws continue to rake across the small of his back. Never hard enough to draw blood, but enough that he knows they’ll leave thin marks against his brown skin.

When he pulls away again, it’s less to tease them and more because he’s quickly losing his own limited self control.

“Shouldn’t we—” He starts, trying and failing to ignore them grinding up against him through their skirt. “Shouldn’t we move somewhere else?” But Michael just shakes their head, trying to kiss him again, huffing in annoyance when Martin pushes them back gently with a hand across their face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to, you know desecrate your horde or—”

“Wux re sia rasvim, Martin.” Shaking his hand off, they interrupt him, tilting his face up towards them with a claw beneath his chin, and Martin immediately loses any other protests he may have had. It doesn’t particularly matter that he doesn’t actually understand what they’re saying; he’s got a few words, but can’t quite put them together. He only gets it with what they say next. “Sirasvimiaxa-ornarise,” they murmur, cupping his round face in the palm of their hand affectionately, and oh. It’s not an exact translation, not really, just an approximation, but he’s usually heard the pet name translated as “my heart, my soul, my dearest treasure.” It’s always, always, always enough to make him melt, but here, like this…

He wonders if there’s something appealing to Michael, about taking him right in the center of their horde. 

Breathless all at once, Martin slips back off of their lap, looking for a place where he won’t get mauled by coins or break anything. He settles on a finely woven rug, nestled between two mounds of treasure, that doesn’t look too wildly precious. When he’s scrambled his way there, he pauses for just a moment, then undresses and drops to all fours to crawl to the center of the rug, swaying just a little more than necessary. It feels sort of ridiculous, to try and… put on a show, or something, but Martin’s feeling brave. He’s rewarded for his efforts with a throaty rumble from behind him.

“So are you going to join me or…?” He teases because it’s fun to see them so worked up, looking back at them over his shoulder, folding his arms down to rest on his elbows and tilting his hips up in a feigned stretch, leaving his ass on display. 

Michael is behind him in a second, wings flared brilliant and teeth bared at him, pressed in close. Staying balanced on one arm, he manages to snag the small bottle of oil hanging out of the pocket of his trousers, slicking up his fingers generously, breathless with anticipation. 

Michael shifts back just enough for him to reach back and press a finger into his hole, but only barely, keeping their hands on him, breath warm against his back. He gasps as they grip firmly at his ass, kneading and stroking and exposing his slick hole. Impatient, he adds another digit, scissoring them with a stretch that makes him hiss. 

“Took you long enou—mmmph!” Martin tries to goad, but doesn’t quite manage it when they shove their fingers into his mouth, snarling a command he can’t understand. He feels his cock twitch between his legs, moan muffled by their hand as his eyes go half-lidded. Pushing a little more oil into himself, he pulls his fingers back with a pleasant twist. It’s not quite enough stretching; even in normal circumstances, it takes more preparation to take Michael, and the state they’re in has swollen their cock even further, but Martin’s way past caring. 

He just spreads his legs, sucking at the fingers in his mouth. Lapping at each heavy digit methodically, eager enough that he can feel drool smeared across his lips and dripping down his chin, he loses track of everything except Michael. It’s easy to forget how tall they are, simply how much  _ bigger _ they are than him, most of the time. Not now.

Like this, as they push into him, one hand wrapped across his whole hip and one heavy on his tongue, their chest pressed against his back and fluttering wings blanketing them both, it’s impossible to ignore. They cover him completely in terms of height, make him feel safe, held,  _ full. _

Their cock breaches him, pushing in inch by inch until he can’t breathe. All the air has been forced out of him, and it burns, too big in the way he loves, and the whole world glitters with gemstones and scattered light through his dazed eyes. Here, in the hall of things Michael loves, he is on display and entirely theirs.

Michael’s thrust hit him deep, at this angle, driving right into the center of him and rubbing against his prostate in white-hot bursts of pleasure that have him mumbling little, broken-off moans each time they push into him. He rocks with the force of their thrusts, held between their cock and their fingers. The obscene sounds of their bodies colliding echoes through the cave.

Above him, Michael’s breath comes in rough gasps, their jagged claws digging into the soft skin of his hip as they pull him back against them, all gentleness forgotten. It’s overwhelming in the best way, to give himself over to that sharp pain, the slam of their prick into him again and again, their fingers still rubbing against his needy tongue. Martin feels mindless with it, lost in the waves of pleasure that roll over him. 

He jolts when he feels pressure against his aching cock, yelling embarrassingly loud around their hand. Something flat and cool presses up against him until he’s whimpering, rocking against it every time he’s pushed forward by their thrusts. Overstimulated all at once, it takes him a moment to recognize the new sensation as the angular end of Michael’s tail, pushing him closer and closer to the edge with its steady pressure. He doesn’t stand a chance, then.

Martin climaxes with a keen still muffled by his the fingers on his tongue. His vision goes white for a moment as he comes against Michael’s tail, their thrusts rocking him forward past the point of overwhelmed. Still they hold him steady even as he goes limp, pushing into him a few more times before he feels their cock pulsing inside of him. 

For a moment, all the world is just their mingled panting. Michael slumps down against him, head hanging down beside his own, but he keeps them steady, trying to blink some life back into his brain.

“Remind me to bring more gifts for your horde,” he jokes, but it comes out lame when his mouth isn’t really working yet, and they burst into a fit of giggles on top of him, their ribs shaking with it. There’s no way in the world Martin can keep from laughing, too, in the ridiculous situation they’ve gotten themselves into and which he wouldn’t trade for the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> My evil plan all along was to wrap up genuine fluff in the pwp like dog medicine in cheese to make you all care about Martin/Michael, muahahaha >:)
> 
> In all seriousness, I wanted to get the kind of mindlessness of fuck-or-die stuff, but it was very important to me for there to be actual, complete consent and have the characters actually talk things out. This fic came out of that, and also my firm belief that Martin is a complete monsterfucker, although now that I've been working on it for awhile I imagine that they initially got together after Michael got injured and Martin helped heal them, though they didn't really like each other at first, with a healthy helping of pining in a fic I will likely never write.
> 
> This will have an eventual part two!!! I have ideas for a few scenes already, but if there's something in particular you want to see, comment and let me know! I can't promise that it'll appear, but I'll certainly consider it (although nothing with Michael as a full dragon, because I think that would take a LOT of preparation and care not plausible within this fic lol).
> 
> Or just comment in general, they're always appreciated!!!!! Especially with something as niche as this.


End file.
